After Tears. Niq Mhlongo

between you two?”

      “No, I’m no longer interested in her and I don’t care what she does with her pussy now,” he said, looking at me.

      “But I think she’s perfect for you, man.”

      “Yeah, you’re right, she’s a perfect pain in the arse,” he responded uninterestedly.

      “What happened?”

      “She thinks that I’m her walking ATM. It’s as if I have to pay to have sex with her and, since I left her, she behaves like those motor mechanics that you see in the Midway scrapyards. Yeah, she’s always lying on her back for men to screw her for money. She’s a puff and pass, man. You can have her if you’re curious to know about what’s hiding under those panties, but I’m telling you now that those nice curves of hers are dangerous. She’s a social worker. Uyagayana. She gives. Don’t tell me that you don’t know about that?”

      “Of course I don’t know. I only came back to the township recently. I don’t know many people here.”

      “I think we should spend some time together at The White House this Saturday. You always have your nose buried in a book, Advo, it’s not healthy, my bra. You’ll go mad. I can hook you up with a nice mntwana.”

      “I didn’t know that it was that simple.”

      “Siriyasi, I’m telling you, Advo, there’s a minimum of five chicks for every dick in Soweto,” emphasised Zero.

      “Is that so?”

      “Siriyasi, Baba. Sure. I already have a new release, man. I got this new chick during a funeral some months back. When I saw her by the graveside that day, I knew she was going to be mine,” he said, touching his left breast tenderly to show his love.

      “Are you serious? But how did you get her by the graveside, man?” I found myself unable to resist asking him.

      Before he could answer, Zero beamed broadly. My question seemed to have excited him and he was smiling as if I had just caught him fondling Miss Universe’s breasts in his zozo.

      “That’s a good question, Advo. A good question indeed,” he repeated. “I always do my homework on the beautiful things that appeal to my heart. Even PP knows that he can’t compete with me when it comes to beautiful chicks.” He slapped his chest with his left hand. “PP knows that I’m the number one here in Msa­wawa and he comes second. I’m the real makoya charm. I have great taste in abomabhebeza and I always win them with ease. PP has poor taste when it comes to women. All of his chicks that I know of are shapeless like a two-litre bottle of cooldrink.”

      “Is that for sure?”

      “Siriyasi, man, I’m not lying to you, Advo.”

      I was tired of talking, but I had to keep going because of the free ride. Luckily I saw Zero’s face light up as he stopped the taxi at the red robots by Vista University’s Soweto campus. In the other lane was a green Jeep Cherokee and a beautiful young lady with an Afro was driving it. From the open sunroof and windows of the Jeep I could hear the jazz of Moses Molelekwa. Zero immediately wound down his window. He took his 5110 Nokia cellphone from the dashboard and whistled at the lady in the Jeep.

      “Hello, Ms Thing,” he said to her, smiling.

      The lady lowered the volume of her CD player and smiled back at Zero. She waved her hand at him lazily, but Zero had already misinterpreted the lady’s innocent smile as a sexual invitation and he smiled again, his mouth spreading from one big ear to the other.

      “Oh, my God, you’re so fucking hot,” he said, running his tongue over his lips, “did you bath in full-cream milk today?”

      The lady smiled at the compliment, but she still didn’t say anything. Instead she took a drag on the cigarette that she was smoking. Zero pointed at his cellphone as the lady looked at him.

      “Can we exchange numbers, mabhebeza? I promise I’ll call you tonight.”

      “Sorry, it’s a wrong number,” the lady said, trying to lighten her refusal with a smile. “Try next door.”

      “Why shouldn’t I try you, sweetheart? You’re the one that I want.”

      “Because I don’t think you have the equipment that I need.”

      “You’re missing out big time, mabhebeza. Don’t deprive yourself of the pleasure that I’ll give you.”

      The robots went green and, as the lady sped off, I glimpsed her personalised numberplate that read: KARABO GP.

      Zero tried to match the speed of the Jeep, but his taxi couldn’t keep up. Unfortunately for the lady in the Jeep, the robots were red again at the T-junction leading to Orlando power station. She was looking to her right, at a piece of ground where some shacks had been built, when Zero called to her. It was obvious that he was on the lady’s list of no, no, nos, the way she took her time to respond, but Zero wasn’t going to give up.

      “What’s your name, mabhebeza?”

      “Syphilis.”

      “Wow, that’s a very nice name. So where do you live, Phyllis?”

      I nearly laughed out loud when I realised that Zero hadn’t heard the lady correctly.

      “I live in Aids View.”

      “Ace View? Is that a new suburb I don’t know?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Where about is that?”

      “Between Gonorrhoea Park and Masturbation,” she answered, relaxing against the headrest.

      “Me and you have a lot in common, mabhebeza,” said Zero, grabbing his crotch, “we must get together soon.”

      “Go jack off,” said the lady and took another deep drag on her cigarette.

      The robots went green and the lady sped off again.

      * * *

      By half past nine I was at the Housing Department’s offices in New­gate Centre. As I entered, I saw that the corridor was already full of people. The majority had come to register for the low-cost RDP houses that the government was building. There was no way I was going to stand in that queue, so I went straight to the door on which was written Transfer & Conveyances. I knocked loudly at the door, just once.

      “Come in,” said the voice of a woman inside.

      I opened the door gently and stepped into the office where two women were busy chatting. The moment I entered the office, the lady sitting behind the table started laughing at a joke her friend had made and I saw that her front tooth was slightly crossed over the one beside it. Her friend, who had slender, long-fingered hands, was holding a white mug of coffee.

      “Dumelang,” I greeted them in Sotho, as I had heard them speaking the language.

      “Dumela, abuti. How can we help you?” said the one with the crooked tooth.

      “I was wondering if you could help me by checking if a certain house in Chiawelo, Extension Two, in Soweto, belongs to one Mr Kuzwayo.”

      The long-fingered lady shook her head and lifted her coffee mug to her lips. She sipped her coffee as she eyed me sharply with the superiority that government office workers show to anybody who’s not from parliament.

      “What does the title deed say?” she asked, her voice betraying her lack of interest.

      “Well, it says it belongs to Mr Sbusiso Kuzwayo.”

      “Then what’s the problem?” asked the one with the crooked tooth.

      “I wanted to verify the details because my mother wants to sell it.”

      The woman with the crooked tooth rubbed the back of her one hand across her eyes.

      “Actually, we no longer deal with the transfers of